


the trump card

by refectory



Series: The Binding [1]
Category: The Binding - Bridget Collins
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Domestic Bliss, Don't copy to another site, I can't believe they are in love, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 09:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17598986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refectory/pseuds/refectory
Summary: I put my hands up to my face. I wanted to stop existing.'Pa wrote to Lucian's family in Castleford. He wanted to make sure you never saw him again.''You shouldn't have told them,' I said, and I sounded like a stranger. 'It was none of your business, Alta.''Ilovehim.' A pause. 'I –lovedhim.'Of course. The trump card. The words that, ifIsaid them . . . I didn't let myself finish the thought.— The Binding, pg. 274





	the trump card

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Bridget Collins for my life

 

In general, Emmett doesn't concern himself with my worries. He prefers to laugh them into submission. That’s how I best remember, now that I can, Emmett during that winter at my uncle's. When he wasn't throwing a tantrum at whatever imagined slight I committed against him, he was laughing. Giggling, really, although he despised being told as much.

Originally, his disdain for propriety kept my attention, a hook that hid under my skin, tugging away whenever I mustered the strength of mind to pull back.

It was freeing in its own way. I was put to work mucking stables just as every other man in the house was. And when the snow melted and Turning passed, when the sun sat high in the sky bearing its heat on the farm, I did my very best not to give myself away. While I would sweat through my borrowed shirt, Emmett would strip his off and throw it onto some nearby haystack. Then if he happened to notice my silence, he would ask: _What's that face for?_ and I would have to smooth my expression away and try not to laugh, because it was kinder than getting sick on him.

However endearing and liberating it was back then, presently it was an issue. Mainly in that I can't bear to watch Emmett fall upon his food in such a slovenly manner, nevermind that I'd seen it all before. Back then, with Emmett's exceedingly sensitive temper, I kept my silence.

Now, I can't resist. ‘I know you didn't forget how to use a spoon, Emmett.’

 ‘Don't need one.’

 ‘You're eating stew, what other tool would work?’

Emmett tears off a piece of bread from the loaf sitting between us, soaking it in the soup before stuffing it in his mouth. Some fatty liquid drips from the corner of his mouth; never-wasteful Emmett catches it on his thumb, sucking on it loudly. ‘I'm fine without one, see?’

His messiness leaves a smudge of grease around his lips, catching the light of the lamps when he shifts. ‘Just – contain yourself, would you? Use a spoon. Please. For my sake.’

‘Am I distracting you?’ He asks, and he stares at me like . . .

 ‘You could use some proper training on seduction if you think your messy eating habits could get me in the mood.'

Emmett laughs because Emmett usually does. In direct contrast to what I claimed, he really doesn't need to do much to get my interest, and I have to be conscious of what my own mouth is doing. He's effortlessly handsome and somehow remains as much when he is actively disgusting. No amount of crumbs on his face could soften his jawline or dim the intensity in his eyes. I blink, realizing that I – _we_ 've – been staring. Emmett looks smug.

I clear my throat. I use my spoon to drink some of the rich broth. I don't say _see? This is what manners looks like._ Emmett's good at catching onto insults.

‘I could always get you a bib,’ I say; I might as well. ‘One of those accessories babies wear to keep their clothing clean while they eat.’

 Emmett's eyebrows twist around. He confesses, ‘We never had those.’

 I can't quite smother my reaction in time. ‘ _Never_?’

 'It was low on our list of concerns. Our clothes weren't . . . it wasn't a big deal if they got dirty,’ He sounds slightly defensive. For all that Emmett believes he’s sloughed off his old life, he can't quite forget his farm boy pride. If I tell him I don't care he will take it the wrong way. ‘I suppose it wasn't the same for you.’

 ‘I – no, it wasn't.’ Very different. Appearances are everything to families like mine. They start you early. ‘You're trying to change the topic.’

‘No, _you'_ re trying to insult me. I am getting to know you.’

As if he needs to. My upbringing is insignificant little details; everything important belongs to Emmett already. ‘Use a spoon,’ I say haltingly, ‘You're making a mess.’

He seems, for a quick instance, like he'd enjoy nothing more than to mock me. Emmett has always enjoyed it, some boyish instinct to tease the girl – or boy, rather – who holds his affections. But we are young men now, and there are other ways for him to work through his tension. I try not to think about it. I want to get through this dinner.

‘You look constipated,’ Emmett kindly points out. He wipes his hands on his trousers – I try not to sigh – and picks up the spoon sitting beside his bowl, disturbing the utensil’s quest to collect dust. When I first met Emmett and received his ungrateful sneers, I would bow lowly and extravagantly, so he would know I was mocking him, so he couldn't possibly miss that I found his anger nonthreatening; and amusing on top of it. Emmett uses his spoon exactly like that.

He refrains from slobbering for the rest of our meal. The oven is nursing embers and a full quietness settles over the room, as well as a thick coldness that enters our house despite closed windows and doors. Emmett is too invested in his broth to notice, but I'm keenly aware of how cold it is. I go over to tend to the fire, piling it with wood, striking a match over it. It takes several tries for my numbed fingers to convince the match to light, but no amount of effort sets alight the logs.

Emmett breathes over my shoulder. Subconsciously I must have noticed his approach because his presence doesn't surprise me. ‘You have to sweep the ash out. And rearrange the logs. And use–’

‘Shut up, Emmett.’

‘I'm just trying to help.’

 I bite down on amusement. ‘Oh, why don't give it a shot. I can tell you're dying to,’

 ‘If you insist,’ Emmett's lips move against my neck. I expect him to move to my side, but he stays leaning against my back and works around me. His chest is like a solid wall holding up my weight. I melt into his almost-embrace, watching with rising giddiness as his hands brush the ash, shuffle the logs, and add straw. His hands are different; so are his arms. As a binder, being indoors sucked the tan out of his skin, drained his girth. He's not as broad, but naturally still brown. His calluses are gone – no, moved. I silently declare to relearn his body. It seems unfair that I am unchanged when he is an entirely different person.

The logs catch fire and Emmett sits, his legs around me like a cocoon, his arms coming up to – but he doesn't. Something unfolds within my chest. Well. He is not completely new.

I grab his arms and wrap them around me, smothering my grin when his relieved sigh gusts past my ear. ‘The heat will be unbearable if we sit so close,’ I remind him.

 ‘Probably.’

He doesn't move. I don't want him to. Watching the flames flicker and snap fills me with empty-headed peace, a mindless quiet that I can't fully embrace. Not with Emmett here. All of me wants to focus on him, even if he's not doing anything. It's enough that he is near, that I have his arms bracing me against him. I look down where his hands lay on my stomach. His nails aren't bitten short. Actually, his thumb nail is long, which is something of a novelty for me to see. I cradle it, muttering, ‘I would've thought long nails were too impractical for you,’

'Well they're practical now,’ says Emmett. He pauses and brushes his lips against my temple, almost too light to be considered a kiss. My entire body shudders. ‘Not a fan?’

'At least you keep them clean,’

‘I'm not outside much.’

‘That makes two of us.’

‘We aren't in the same class yet, Lucian,’

‘What happened to being equals?’

‘We are equals; but I am better than you,’ he laughs, ‘I'll rethink after you beat me on top of a horse.’

Heat rushes to my face. ‘You smell like gravy,’ I grumble weakly. ‘Who can take you seriously?’ 

His grip becomes tighter. He says something charming that I immediately forget because his proximity leaves me lightheaded.

Somehow our shirts end up on the floor and we're as close as skin allows, falling together and falling apart in front of an oven fire. I am so happy I keep smiling into our kisses. Laying with him, sticky and unravelled, I feel certainty like a stone in my throat that everything is how it is meant to be. I don't know how on earth I could have wanted to forget Emmett Farmer. Again and again, I would prefer an eternity of heartache than to forget moments of happiness like this, with him.

 

*            *             *

 

The story spills out of Emmett eventually. The witch binder who ran her trade from the cabin – Seredith, he insists – lived here for god knows who long only to die at de Havilland's hand.

‘He killed her?’

Emmett scowls. ‘He certainly had something to do with it. She was . . . she was improving.’

The ill do that: get better before a sudden decline. It's happened. I didn't like de Havilland – although thinking of him, the fate I all but ordered for him, made my stomach churn. We were not familiar on a personal level. He was my father's slave, one more pawn, nothing more. Our relationship was barely professional. Emmett lived with him. If he's going to cast judgement, it is learned.

Information on Seredith is hoarded greedily, parted with reluctantly, as if Emmett's afraid to talk about her. It isn't like I can bind his memories of her, but I still accept stray anecdotes and carefully told stories like it's gold. Or maybe a more precious currency, given my carelessness with money. They're happy memories. Important to him. He loved her. He never says as much, but I am an expert on Emmett's feelings – he never told Seredith and he never told me, but he does and did and will always.

Her ghost wanders. There is a room upstairs that's never had its door opened, that seems perpetually cold. ‘Have you considered airing it?'

‘No. I – no. I can't . . . not yet, Lucian.’

He gets a listless look in his eye whenever I ask, so I stop asking. Anyhow, Seredith's influence is clearer in ways that aren't depressing: Emmett's familiarity with chores is mundane enough, but he’s an expert with the labour of book-binding. Not magic, just simply gluing down endpapers, his work with blind and gold tooling, his nimble confidence in threading parchment with leather.

‘Why do you do it?’ I ask one day, shaking him out of his own mind. He must have finished a billion endpapers by now and shows no sign of stopping. ‘You aren't binding. Is there a point?’

Emmett scratches the bench top with his thumbnail. ‘I guess there isn't. It's – something to do. With my time.’

‘You don't intend on . . .’

‘On what? Lucian?’

I bite my lip. My need to know wins over my need to keep the peace. ‘Are you going to bind,’ I ask, the question falling too flat, too aggressive. I shouldn't ask – but I have. And I had to. I stand straighter.

Emmett's bright eyes flitter over my face. He places his – his tools to the side, twisting around on his seat to give me his regard. We've been in this position before, although I'd watched him from the window and he'd watched back with a stranger's gaze. Not now. Emmett knows me intimately, and it sets my teeth on edge to be anticipated like this.

‘I'm only an apprentice,’ he says slowly.

‘With no master,’ I reply coolly. ‘I saw Nell's binding. The way de Havilland spoke of you – and my father – tell me, do you need a master?’

‘Yes,’ Emmett snaps, and turns away from me like I've struck him. He pauses. ‘. . . No. It's intuitive. Seredith told me I'd be good at it.’

‘And you are,’ My father said it was a perfect binding, not just that but impressive as well. He preferred Emmett's work over de Havilland's, and that was Emmett's first job. Emmett doesn't need a master. I believe this. ‘You could bind right now. Go to town and get your trade license.’

‘I won't trade,’ Emmett shakes his head sharply.

‘Why not? A memory is a memory, no matter who you steal it from.’

‘You don't get it. You hate binding too much to ever . . . Do you still think it's cowardly?’ I open my mouth, and Emmett narrows his eyes. ‘Even after what happened?’

My hesitation lasts a couple beats. Then I am able to tell him confidently, ‘I do. It's spineless.’ His wide shoulders deflate like my truth is a weight he can't bear. ‘I bound myself because I was too weak to live with you choosing to forget me. If I were braver, I would have done – anything else.’

Emmett works his jaw angrily. He contemplates what to say next. I think he's deciding which thread to argue. His choice to forget me, or to tackle my hatred and disgust for his trade. For his magic. ‘I didn't choose,’ He says abruptly, the words taken from his mouth. ‘Your father sent someone. He took Alta and he . . . he killed . . .’

Silence. My heart shudders to a halt.

‘Haven't you wondered where Splotch is?’

The air leaves the room. I make it over to a seat before my knees give away. Emmett shoots up from his work bench and comes towards me, his hand a steadying influence where he grips my arm. He tells me to breathe, and I tell him to shut up. I'm not panicking. I am not even surprised, because this is the kind of person my father is. This is what he does. He rips choices away from you.

Emmett babbles nonsensically, ‘. . . of course you didn't know, I don't know why I thought you did. I didn't, you would never have let–’

I couldn't help imagining it. Someone trussing Emmett and Alta in a sack, tying their hands and feet, forcing their proud heads down and smothering their rebellious spark; the dearest parts of them. Splotch, the terrier I missed as soon as I remembered – no, I hadn't thought to ask after her, ignorantly assuming she was with Emmett's family. My fault. Everything I touched was something my father’s blood touched, and nothing was sacred after him.

But, that left me questioning one thing. The Farmer's house was an old well-loved pile of rotting wood; it creaked. If there was a person light-footed enough to sneak in without alerting Alta, who had ears like an elephant, how had they taken her without a struggle? Taken Emmett, twice as stubborn and just as likely to make noise about it?

The realization comes upon me at once. It couldn't have happened inside the house. ‘How did he get you out into the open? You both?’

Emmett hesitates. ‘That isn't important. Lucian, we should talk later.’

‘I want to know.’

I have to. I always have to, even though the truth is never gentle.

‘It isn't important,’ Emmett says strictly. He gets protective over certain subjects. His work. His sister. His pride. Me.

It’s a dead giveaway. Unfortunately for Emmett, not only is he easy to read, but I have the advantageous position of knowing exactly how far my father is willing to go to get his own way. ‘He used me, didn't he? What did he do? Did he, what, threaten me? Impersonate me? Tell me, Emmett.’

Emmett says, ‘I won't.’

But I saw his flinch.

‘He pretended to be me,’ I breathed. We were in love and I'd left so abruptly. It would have been incredibly, offensively easy to get Emmett where he needed to be. ‘Emmett–’

His hands come up around my face, forcing me to look him in the eye. Half his face is lit up by sunlight reflecting up off the snow, the other by flickering lamplight. He is deadly serious. ‘Stop it. It isn't your fault. I don't think it's ever been your fault in the whole time we've known each other.’

‘ _It_?’

‘All of it. Any of it. My sister jumping in the pond, the way we felt for each other, my binding, de Havilland–' 

‘I lied and had him killed. I murdered him.’

‘You lied and your crazy fucking father saw a chance to make you feel more like shit,’ Emmett corrects staunchly. It's his version of events he wasn’t apart of to begin with. He speaks with such confidence I'm not sure how to disbelieve him. ‘Stop. You didn't do anything wrong.’

I did. I did so many things wrong. ‘You can't . . .’

‘You'll find that I can,’ Emmett interrupts. He presses our foreheads together. My harsh breathing is deafening in the snow-bogged cabin where time stands still. Emmett grabs my shaking hand, holds it tightly so I forget it's trembling, and places it against his threadbare shirt, over his heart.

‘Is this supposed to calm me down?’ I send him an incredulous look. I feel his laughter better than I hear it. ‘Your heart is beating like a rabbit.’

‘The kind your uncle had?’

‘More like the kind you poached. Emmett. I'm sorry.’

‘How many times have I wanted you to grovel,’ he sighs wistfully, ‘but when you do, it just pisses me off because you don't have to.’ His heart slows down under my palm. My lungs kick into gear and start doing their job. Emmett has jilted the world beneath my feet again, if he'd ever stopped.

We soak in each other's companionship. Emmett breaks the silence. ‘I'm not going to bind, yet.’

The _yet_ keeps me from complete relief. ‘You want to,’

‘It's who I am. What I do. It's been months since Seredith died, so I'm not sure anyone will come here.’

‘But if they do . . .’

‘It will take some time,’ Emmett says quietly. ‘You don't have to be around when I bind. I won't keep you here.’

I remind myself to inhale. ‘Are you sending me away?’ I'm proud of my steady voice.

‘No,’ Emmett says vehemently. I've offended him. I am familiar with the tone so I know what I'm talking about. He turns a certain shade of red when he thinks I’m assuming the worst of him. This, apparently, counts. ‘I won't force you to stay either.' 

‘I won't force you to stop. We'll figure it out. You said we had time, right? We will sort it out. Together, Emmett.’

His smile is blinding. I watch him. I am going to kiss him, I think, but the sweet curl on his lips and the crooked set of his teeth is strangely arresting. I can't pull myself out of his orbit long enough to put my thoughts into actions; so I think of it, and that alone is a luxury I've more or less killed for.

 

*            *             *

 

Emmett has to go into town for supplies and to establish contact with post, so next time Emmett can send orders from home instead of riding miles out through half-thawed snow.

‘What do you want?’

‘I'll come with you.’

‘We don't have saddles,’ He reminds me. I can't ride bareback and we are both aware of it. ‘Yours didn't survive Turning. Are you sure?’

I deliberately don't pout. I haven't pouted since I was a child. I'm addicted to Emmett's presence, though, to the ease of reaching out and knowing he's there. It's security, not overbearing. Emmett gets tied up in his work often enough he goes nonverbal for days unless I remind him I'm there. I consider it a break from him without truly being away.

This is different. He is actually gone, for two days minimum. When he leaves he takes warmth with him. I poke at our fireplace, wrap myself in a large coat, yet I can't shake my chill. So I submit to it. I pick through the store rooms, bored enough that I scarcely care for the mess I leave behind. Regardless Emmett would come through and neurotically sort it. I'm just giving him a mess to clean for once.

I make myself dinner, but it's burnt and flavorless and I eat three bites before throwing it to the horse. It's a restless, cold sleep. The next day is easier. I don't have much housework to do; Emmett's taken to minding a home like a duck to water, whereas I prefer to watch him. I like when he seals the floorboards. Good angle.

The remaining horse gets most of my attention. I rub her clean with straw and take her for a looping circle around the cabin, not too far least she bog her hooves in marsh. After I've exercised her, I bathe – I smell like sweat and horse and rotting weeds. Dinner is tasteless. I do this for three more days before I hear Emmett's footsteps on the porch.

I'm off the armchair in an instant, throwing open the door to Emmett's flushed face. His eyes brighten at the sight of me. ‘That was four days,’ I tell him.

‘You sound so self-righteous,’ He laughs, and brings our lips together impatiently. I open to Emmett without hesitation, with _relief_. He is as desperate as I am. He won't say it.

So I do. ‘I missed you.’

The wind-flush changes shade, turning embarrassed and flattered. He kisses me again, softer, and looks regretful when he parts. I soon figure out why. His horse whinnies, tossing his head impatiently. ‘Alright, alright.’ Emmett huffs. ‘Got a surprise for you.’

The horse is attached to a full cart of goods. Produce, binding supplies, wood, nails, tools, and a trough. ‘There's mead in there as well,’ He isn't a fan of my drinking, but he's been quiet on it so far.

‘Why the wood?’

‘More than just wood. Figured I could terraform a bit, build pens for animals. Pigs, lambs, the essentials. We won't spend as much on groceries if we have a farm.’

I blink, stunned. ‘You want to start a farm in the marshes?’

‘A small one,’ he sounds proud of his idea. ‘You like animals, don't you?’

‘I do,’ I confirm blankly. Excitement rises in my throat. He noticed. Of course he did. ‘Did you . . . Emmett, did you buy me a farm?’

‘Not yet. I'm getting to that part.’ He muses. ‘Think you can handle it?’

‘You'll help,’ It is a foregone conclusion. My hands clench around nothing when they should be around Emmett. I clear my throat. ‘Hurry, we need to unhook the cart and get everything inside before it spoils.’

Emmett follows me down the porch with a perk in his step, someone who knows they've done a good job. ‘Eager, are you?’

‘Once we get everything in, we are going to bed,’ I inform him matter-of-factly. I grab the first sack I see, heaving it over the edge of the cart while Emmett, starry-eyed and flustered despite himself, relieves his horse of his load. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Let's just sort this out,’ Emmett grunts, smacking the horse's rear. He lets him trot around. Emmett isn't looking at me. The sack is increasing in weight the longer I hold it, but I want to see him to betray himself.

‘Well? Are you moving or not?’

He glances at me sideways. I have to smile at the utter lack of self control painted over his face. I throw the sack back in the cart. He watches me interestedly, then: ‘Please tell me I'm not misreading you.’

I walk closer. I walk past him. I'm at the door before I glance over my shoulder and shoot him a questioning look. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Our stuff?’

‘Won't spoil if we're quick about it. So be quick about it.’

His eyes find mine. The bedroom suddenly seems too far away, but we manage after some mishaps.

 

*            *             *

 

We get chickens one by one until we reach eight; two goats; one cow. There isn't space for more. What we have is enough to satisfy me for a lifetime. Emmett cautions me against naming our animals – we might have to butcher them and it's easier if they're just produce – but I wave him away and Christen them all. Eleven names for eleven friends. I wake early to tend to my animals and spend long afternoons learning from Emmett on mending gates, posts, making fertilizer from dung. Slowly our residence transforms from a lazy swamp-swollen cabin to a sprawling proper house with land and a mailbox.

We get a visitor Wednesday afternoon while I'm prodding at a creaky porch step. ‘You'll need to rip it up,’ Emmett told me over his mug; I'd asked him politely to go away. Unfortunately I think his assessment was accurate. We might have to tear down the stairs and start anew. I like the idea.

I didn't hear horses. A peasant woman clears her throat. It's an unpleasantly thick sound. I whip around to face the stranger. ‘Oh–’

She isn't looking at me, although her eyes are pointing in my direction. ‘Is this the binder's home?’

Instinct kicks in. I compose myself, dipping into a shallow bow that she ignores. Her eyes flick over my head, examining the freshly painted front of my home, or perhaps watching the erratic flight path of a mosquito. I swallow. ‘The – the binder is inside. Were you looking to . . .’

‘Take me to her.’

‘Him,’ I correct before I realize she won't care. ‘He's – follow me, ma'am.’

She nods idly, shadowing me as I allow her inside. I'm suddenly conscious of how homely everything is, evidence of our cohabitation, more intermingled than roommates. The peasant's sunken gaze doesn't stick to any damning evidence. She can't keep still. ‘Can I see him?’

I tug on my bottom lip. I want to ask her what is so terrible she wants to give it up to a stranger. What is bad enough that she'd rather be violated than live with it. I think of my reasons and choke down questions I have no right to ask. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘No. No. I need the binder.’ Her insistence turns rabid. I carefully keep out of arm's reach. ‘Do you understand me, boy? I have to see the binder. I thought – if people knew I was here I'd be lynched – just bring him to me. So I can get this over with. Now.’

Her raised voice brings Emmett rushing out of his workshop. I don't look at him, wary of the threat in front of me. Of course, he stands between us, which snaps me out of hypervigilance and slightly amuses me. What's he going to do if she attacks? Bind a book at her?

‘You,’ She hisses through her teeth. ‘Are you the binder? I thought she was a witch.’

‘I told her otherwise,’ I mutter. Emmett shushes me.

‘The old binder died. I can help you.’

‘Died? I didn't know your kind could.’

‘Humans?’

The peasant looks like she bit into something sour. Her eyes dart across the foyer. ‘Can we get on with it? Can you take it away?’

‘Are you sure?’

She nods, and adds, ‘ _Please._ ’

Emmett's shoulders bow. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Courtesy Smith.’

‘Courtesy, why don't you come with me?’ Quieter, to me: ‘Lucian, could you . . .’

I press my shoulder into his back. I want to put as much distance between myself and the ritual as I can; which wars with my desire to stay close to Emmett. _He’s a binder,_ I reprimand myself. ‘I'll milk Molly.’

‘Molly,’ he murmurs mockingly – Molly is our goat – but he's too solemn to convince me. I want to kiss him as a comfort to us both, and have to settle for brushing my knuckles against his as I walk by. Emmett ushers Courtesy Smith to the door with three-locks, leads her down the stairs. The locks click into place like a gunshot.

I milk Molly, then our cow Winnifred. I grab the butter we made from last week's harvest and spread it on a slice of bread, eating as I watch the innocuously locked door. I try to distract myself by messing around with the chickens; a chastening peck from Bernadette drives me back inside, however. I haul water from the well to fill our tub, guessing it will be necessary.

The binding concludes on the tail of twilight. Courtesy Smith emerges from the room with cloudy eyes, as if she hasn't yet woken from a good dream. Nell and Abigail had the same vacant look whenever de Havilland visited; my father, another book for his sadistic library.

Emmett looks to have taken whatever burden she sacrificed; I suppose that's exactly what he did. His ink-smudged fingers bracelet his wrist, massaging a worked joint. ‘Are you able to ride home at this time?’

‘My horse isn't far.’

Just like that, Courtesy Smith prances out, buoyed by an unseen force. No backwards glance. No thank you. Emmett leans completely on a shelf and closes his eyes.

‘What did you bind?’ I hear myself.

He keeps his eyes shut. ‘I can't tell you that.’

Her book is under his arm. No amount of intense staring allows me to read its contents. I don't even want to: I've experienced enough unpleasant memories. It's strange that this is a part of Emmett that I shall never be allowed to. His moral compass is far too rigid to let the book be read by anyone but himself; again, not that I _want_ to. It's merely an odd thought of mine. Easily banished.

As soon as I lay my hand on his back he twists so that he may put his head on my shoulder. ‘I'm tired,’ he says.

‘I'm certain you are,’ I reply very neutrally. He ripped a lady's memories from her soul. He must be exhausted. Then he makes a wounded sound and my righteous anger leaves me, my fingers dancing a trail into his greasy hair. ‘You should wash.’

I am glad that I filled the tub.

‘Don't want to.’

‘You stink,’ I try again.

‘Come with me?’

‘I'm not in the mood for fucking, Emmett.’

It is impossible but I swear I _hear_ him roll his eyes. ‘Do I look like I have the energy? I just want you close. Lucian, you help by being there.’

Emmett jolts when I unexpectedly kiss his forehead. He really is sleepy. If I don't go with him he very well might drown in the tub. ‘I am not – comfortable – with the binding.’

‘You have no reference for it being consensual,’ is his prompt answer. Accurate too. For all that the maids said _yes_ to being bound, it was under duress. Nell is proof that they'd rather die than have their memories taken, only for the nightmare to happen again as if it was the very first time – over and over and over until finally–

My scar stings.

No. He's right. I've never experienced Binding as voluntary and I didn't think myself capable of seeing it as merciful. Emmett described the exchange as kind. _You bind out of unconditional love_. Rather optimistic view for someone who apprenticed under the likes of de Havilland.

‘Do you want to talk about this?’ He asks. His throat is cut raw but he'd sit up and do it if I said yes. Emmett's honorable. It's really quite attractive of him.

‘Let's bathe.’ I lead him to the bathroom. I help him out of his shirt. He insists on doing the rest by himself. I dip my fingers into the water; it's barely above tepid. The shock should wake Emmett up. An unexpected bonus. Maybe. It will soon become clear.

To my disappointment, Emmett grits his teeth through the experience until he reaches an unhappy truce with his discomfort. Story of his life. He drops his head back, his scarred knees hanging over the edge of our clawfoot tub. It makes him look gangly. ‘It isn't a big space.’

He smiles slightly. ‘Nothing you haven't touched before.’

He’s insatiable. So am I. Water overflows when I squeeze myself in front of him. The mess is more than worth it to be close. In a turn of events Emmett has to carry me out: cold water is a soporific when one is deep in thought. Stronger than brandy, not as effective as an amnesiac. We eat modestly, relax in front of the fireplace with mead and tea.

‘Talk to me?’

‘The most exciting part of my life happened with you. Some could argue because of you.'

‘It doesn't have to be exciting. It just needs to be you, Lucian.’

He speaks without thinking. It makes him honest. I return the favor. There is very little in my childhood that isn't ruined by my family simply being there, or glimpsing at a maid I now know was being tortured by my father. I focus on stories featuring Lisette and Cecily, my most harmless. I edit some. Father doesn't throw a glass at me. Mother doesn't let her eyes slide over my broken arm because she isn't sure who's fault it is. I don't mention that my Governess was a favorite of my father's and for that reason thinking of her – of the way she drifted from room to room searching for an object she'd never find – made me dizzy.

Dance lessons are safe. Singing lessons. I whistle Beethoven expertly. He has a childish sense of wonder about it.

‘I'd sing for you, one day.’

‘Not today?’

‘A pig might change my mind.’

‘A – fuck. Yeah, okay, a pig. For what? You don't want to butcher it,’

‘It'll round us out, won't it? Cow, goats, chickens, pig. We'll have a real farm.’

‘Next you'll be wanting a sheep dog.’

I'd love one. Once I've mourned Splotch. ‘A cat. For the frogs.’

‘Cats eat mice, not frogs.’

‘Consider it, Emmett.’

The fire is dying. Emmett is nearly asleep. He'll get a crick in his neck if he nods off as he is. Staring at his profile for too long makes me worry I'm dreaming this. Him. Four months ago I was under my father's thumb, drinking myself into an early death so I could live in that horror house. I left my fiancée at the altar. I was a Darnay simply because I hadn't stuck around long enough to be disinherited.

And now I lived like a hermit in a swamp with my first love.

I left a lot behind. I don't regret a lick of it.

‘Emmett,’ I whisper – ‘We'll be okay.’

‘Yeah? What makes you so sure?’

Because I love him. It's a purifying thought; not because it's my first time thinking it – part of me knew from the moment I saw Emmett – but because I'm no longer ashamed. I don't want to hide and I'm not going to. Loving Emmett isn't a guilty pleasure. It's my one anchor point in a world that never makes sense. A blinding beacon of light amid the noisy sin of everyday living. I love him and we will be alright and it's these two facts _because_ of each other instead of _despite_. Together there is nothing we can't face. I love him. I’d announce it to a priest, in front of two hundred guests, each with lily bouquets, if I could.

He peaks open his eye as if my thinking is loud enough to disturb him. His brown eye glints at me. _Can_ he read my mind? I would share it willingly. Tomorrow, when he's awake enough to hear it and energized enough to let me prove my words.

‘Just a feeling.’ I tell him.

‘Lucian,’ he breathes, closing his eyes tightly as he fought a smile. ‘I believe you. Now let's get to bed before I get a knot in my neck.’

**Author's Note:**

> Bridget Collins please don't sue me. I don't own anything.


End file.
